


In the Bleak Midwinter

by story_monger



Category: Firefly
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas tree showing up in the dining hall is bad enough, not to mention the tinsel and the ceramic reindeer. Mal absolutely does not have to put up with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to try my hand at writing in the Firefly 'verse for a long time, and sappy Christmas fic seemed the ideal way to get started.

The artificial pine tree—complete with little yellow lights, tinsel, and shiny red ornaments—shows up in the dining hall one morning without preamble.

Simon is the first to find it (River didn’t sleep most of the night, so Simon didn’t either) and he drinks his coffee staring at the tree with the contemplative, dazed mindset he used to give the media screen in the mornings as a medical student.

He hasn’t reached the mental capacity to register the tree as odd until Jayne stomps in (because Jayne Cobb does not walk, he stomps), frowns at the tree, and asks, “What the hell is that?”

Simon turns to him haltingly and swallows his mouthful of mediocre coffee.

“Christmas tree,” he says. Jayne stares. “Yule tree?” Simon tries again. “Um. Winter Solstice?”

“Solstice,” Jayne echoes, and his face clears a little. “I know that one from my planet.” He pauses. “Never involved no trees though.”

“Oh. Well,” Simon says. “It’s a winter holiday from Earth-That-Was. Christian and older pagan religions all sort of mixed up together. It’s still quite big in the Core.”

“Mm,” Jayne grunts, rooting through the cabinet and clearly losing interest. Simon leaves him to it and returns his attention to the tree. It’s a nice little thing; reminds him of the trees that his family would set up back at home. He wonders who put it there.

***

The tree garners its reactions from the crew as the morning progresses. Kaylee predictably claps her hands and lets out a delighted little “ _oh.”_ Shepherd and Inara have similar small smiles as if in approval of the tree’s appearance. Zoë barely spares it a glance. Wash is prompted to launch into a long story about the Christmases he had as a kid, and River spends several hours sitting cross-legged before the tree and stroking the red plastic baubles with a reverent expression.

The Captain, for his part, takes the time to pause, squint at the tree so hard that his eyes nearly disappear, then mutter something under his breathe and make for the bridge with his shoulders squared.

***

“What do you mean it was obviously me?” Wash spins around in his seat to pin Mal with a look that he hopes is as many parts incredulous as it is outraged. “Why would I put up a Christmas tree _now_? I’ve never done it before.”

Mal blinks, but forges ahead undeterred.

“On account of you always set up tinsel crap on your console every year.” Mal gestures at said console. Wash and Zoë look too. The space is bare; the dinosaurs don’t even have their traditional tiny hats.

“I haven’t had time to dig all that out yet,” Wash says. He has a small glint in his eye; the Captain is losing ground rapidly. “Mal, it wasn’t me. Probably one of the newbies.”

“Maybe, but we can’t be sure. May be anyone,” Mal muses darkly, like he’s contemplating possible mutiny.

Wash shares a look with his wife, whose lips curl up at the edges.

***

“I _wish_ I’d thought of it!” Kaylee says cheerfully around the thrumming of the engine. She squints at something then fishes a wrench from her toolbox and starts cranking away. “It can get so drab-like around here; something to getcha through the winter’s always a nice idea.”

“It’s not winter,” Mal says with a pained expression. “We’re in space.”

Kaylee gives him an expression like Mal is being purposefully obtuse about this.

“Why you gotta be so stiff ‘gainst it?” she asks. “Just a little tree.”

“It’s stinkin’ up the whole ship!” Mal complains.

“Y’can hardly smell it outside the dining hall. ‘Sides, it’s a nice, living smell and you can’t deny it.”

“Not even really alive.”

“Hush now.”

Mal glowers at the engine for a moment before turning and stalking back up the aft hall.

“Not like anyone’s winters line up anymore,” Kaylee hears him mutter.

***

Two days after the tree makes its appearance, long strands of tinsel interwoven with ropes of artificial pine pop up in the fore passage. Like the tree, the ropes of pine are that cheap analogue kind that resembles real, living plant-stuff just enough to make them smell sharp and scatter leaves on the floor, but they’ll survive a good year without wilting away.

Mal swears vehemently all the way down the hall when he sees them.

Though he does not tear them down, and everyone takes note of that.

***

“I’m Buddhist,” Inara reminds Mal when he corners her in the dining area later that day. “Though I like the tree and the tinsel very much. It’s a nice tradition.”

“It’s Alliance-funded _fèihuà_ ,” Mal responds, arms still crossed. “They go all in for that sort of thing in the Core, don’ they? To build up a united _culture_.” He says the word ‘culture’ like it’s an especially dirty kind of parasite.

“The traditions for Christmas and the Solstice are far older than the Alliance,” Shepherd points out from where he’s sitting across the kitchen table. “All the way back to ancient Earth-That-Was. And no, before you ask, it wasn’t me either.”

“That so, Shepherd?” Mal asks. “Man of faith such as yourself.”

“If anyone wants me to read some verses on Christmas Day and discuss the birth of Jesus then I’ll be more than happy to do so,” Shepherd says, face wry. “But no, I’m not sure how I’d hide that—“ Shepherd nods at the tree—“in my quarters without someone noticing.”

Mal bites his lip.

“What day is it?” he asks.

“December 15,” Inara supplies.

“Ten more days of this,” Mal says, looking ill.

***

For their next job, Mal chooses a dry, brittle, desert moon out on the edges of the Rim. The moon is dominantly Buddhist and a few other smaller faiths, but they still find little ceramic Christmas trees and Saint Nicholases and reindeer in the shops. Mal checks everyone’s purchases before they’re allowed back on _Serenity_ , but it’s mostly baskets and baskets of food. Like they’re starving or something.

Kaylee calls Mal “Mr. Prime Minister” in an accusatory tone and it catches on for several days.

***

The ceramic trees and Saint Nicholases and reindeer appear the next week, grinning from the kitchen table and on spare shelves. The stockings (nine of them, with everyone’s names etched out in neat embroidery) nestle in among the tinsel and pine in the fore hall.

Wash finally digs out his traditional tinsel and decorates the bridge accordingly with River’s help. The ceramic reindeer migrate from the dining area and have a battle for dominance against the dinosaurs. The reindeer win, though not without a big loss to their numbers.

“Reindeer are herbivores and much smaller,” River says around a deep frown.

“Ah, but these reindeer are armed with Christmas magic,” Wash points out.

River’s sense of logic doesn’t hold with this, and in the rematch the dinosaurs win “like they should have in the first place, Wash.”

***

Mal tries to interrogate Simon while he’s sewing Mal’s arm shut, which may not be the best plan but then again all plans sound like good plans when you’re on…on…

“Wha’chu go’ me on again?” Mal asks.

“Just a general painkiller,” Simon lies, bent over the deep gash on Mal’s arm. It looks bad, but Mal’s not worried. He’s got a gorram good doctor. Simon tuts and sprays antibacterial over the wound again. Mal only flinches a little.

“No nerve damage,” Simon announces. “You’re going to run out of luck one day and I don’t want to be there when it happens.”

“Hmgz,” Mal grunts. He lifts his head and catches a glimpse of deep green, which doesn’t match up right with the rest of the infirmary’s cool whites and blues.

“Tha’s a gorram wreath,” Mal accuses after a moment. Gold trimmed red ribbon and everything.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, it showed up today,” Simon says. His tone has slid into something suspiciously more chipper.

“Mu…Mut…” Mal works his jaw. “Mu’iny,” he says. He tries to jab at Simon’s chest with his good hand but he misses by a foot. Simon grabs the wayward hand and sets it back on the gurney.

“You into Christmas, doc’or?” Mal asks in a sharp voice, mainly to save face.

“River and I celebrated it growing up, sure,” Simon says as he starts sewing again. “Not very religious, our family. But it was more for the fun of it.”

“Cul’ural brainwarshing,” Mal crows. Simon side eyes him.

“If you think I’m the one decorating, you’ve got the wrong man,” Simon says. “I keep busy enough between River and you lot stumbling in bleeding all over the place.”

“River’s sneaky. Maybe this‘s her idea of fun,” Mal tries, but not very heatedly. Even the drugs aren’t strong enough to make that sound plausible.

The infirmary door slides open and Zoë strides in with her hair loose around her face.

“The cargo is secure, sir,” she says. “Still on track for Isis?”

“If you wouldn’ mind,” Mal says. He thinks a moment. “Actually, le’s make a detour for Selena on the way there. The job there looked pretty promisin’. Shouldin’ take too much time.”

Simon and Zoë both pause and exchange odd looks before giving the look to Mal.

“Wha’?” he demands looking between them.

“We would be doing the Selena job tomorrow then,” Zoë says after a moment.

“And?”

“Today’s the 24th of December,” Simon says.

“Tomorrow is Christmas, sir,” Zoë says. “Might be nice to give the crew the day off. You’ve been known to do it before.”

Mal squints at both of them but mostly at Zoë. Of anyone on this ship, she ought to know that they can’t turn down jobs right now.

“Can’t afford no days off this year,” Mal finally says. “Zoë, tell Wash we’re headed to Selena.”

Zoë looks almost annoyed at him, and Simon looks judgmental. Mal doesn’t find this very fair.

***

Mal sleeps away the rest of that day and a good portion of the next morning. He rolls out of bed with a swear and a wince, both at his arm and at how late he’s slept. Zoë should have woken him.

Mal heaves himself into the fore passage and pauses. The air is thick with the smell of cooking and he can hear people talking and, if he’s not much mistaken, music.

Mal creeps down the passage with a sinking heart and peers through the porthole into the dining area. He blinks. It’s a lot to take in at once.

The tree is still there, but now the whole room has been festooned in baubles and tinsel and more fake pine. Everyone is in there. Wash, Shepherd, and Zoë stand in the kitchen among what looks like a week’s worth of food. Shepherd and Zoë both peer at an old book and look like they’re arguing; Wash stirs whatever’s in his bowl half to death. River and Kaylee are crouched at the tree and it takes Mal a moment to realize that they’re arranging several brightly wrapped boxes. At the table, Inara and Simon arrange balls of dough on flat cooking sheets, chatting amiably as they dust their hands with flour. Jayne sits at the other end of the table with a bowl of popcorn on one side, a bowl of cranberries on the other, and a concentrated expression as he strings them on a long thread. He takes occasional pulls from his flask and looks about as content as Jayne ever looks outside of a bar.

Mal is still processing all this when River lifts her head suddenly, stands and proceeds to stare at Mal through the porthole. Simon notices her staring and follows her gaze. Mal ducks out of view.

He’s just contemplating his next course of action when the door slides open and Zoë leans out. She smells like chicken and herbs. Mal wonders where in the ‘Verse they found chicken and herbs, not to mention sugar and flour and _popcorn_.

“Morning sir,” Zoë says. “Or rather, good afternoon, sir.” Behind her, Mal can see the crew watching without even trying to be subtle about it. A rich, brassy voice sings about chestnuts on an open fire.

“Quite a spread you got there, Zoë,” he says, lifting his chin.

“Mm.” Zoë glances back unconcernedly. “Thought it’d be good to come back to after we’ve finished the job.”

She’s giving him that sideways smile using only her eyes. Mal took forever to figure it out back in the war, but after he learned to recognize it, he realized that Zoë smiles quite a lot. She’s just not interested in every fool being able to see it.

The point is that Zoë’s giving him that little smile of hers and she knows what he’s thinking and Mal knows what _she’s_ thinking, and it’s all very familiar from more than one Christmas time during the war. He’s flat out blind for not guessing it earlier.

“You put the tree up, didn’t you?” he asks.

Zoë shrugs. “Seemed like a good year for falling in with some Alliance cultural unity, sir,” she says, not even bothering to tone down the wryness in her voice. Mal’s eyes flick over the Tams and Shepherd. The best year for it, that’s a fact.

“But,” Zoë continues. “Kaylee pulled out the tinsel and pine for the fore hall, and Shepherd made us the stockings—handy with a needle that one. Jayne volunteered to smuggle in the figurines. Simon and River had the music. Inara made the wreaths, and we all pitched in for the food.”

Mal remembers the crew’s purchases from that deserty little moon. He mentally winces.

“That so?” Mal asks, and looks over his crew. “Well then just like I suspected. Flat out mutiny.”

Someone laughs; Mal thinks it might have been River.

“But in any case,” Zoë straightens. “Jayne and I are ready for this job. The rest can get things ready for when we come back.”

Mal sighs, runs his hand through his hair, looks at the ceiling briefly.

“The job can wait a day,” he waves a lazy hand. If he’s being defeated, he plans on at least being the one to claim it.

Kaylee makes a high-pitched noise and Inara’s face flows into a genuine smile. The tension in the room lowers by a few notches. Mal glances back at Zoë, eyebrows raised.

“We’re in the middle of a long winter, sir.” Zoë says, answering the question on Mal’s face. “That’s all.” Mal feels himself slacken.

Kaylee then demands his full attention as she tugs Mal into the dining hall. It’s all very…cheery. It takes a moment’s adjustment.

“So Mal,” Wash leans over the counter. “We’re locked over Selena at the moment.”

“That so?” Mal asks, tearing his eyes away from an alarming arrangement of pinecones.

“Happens to be winter down there right now,” Wash continues. “ _Blankets_ of snow.”

“Oh,” Mal says. Well. Can’t hurt at this point, can it?


End file.
